


More Than A Son

by linndechir



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Father/Son Incest, Getting Back Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, mentions of past underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Alexios' return may have ruined everything else in Stentor's life, but there's one thing even he can't take from him.





	More Than A Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).

> It occurred to me that there's no reason why Stentor would know that Nikolaos isn't actually Alexios' biological father, so that's why he's kind of hung up about it here, too. And while canon doesn't actually mention it, I went ahead and assumed that Stentor would also feel like Myrrine "failed" Nikolaos by leaving him. Because I'm pretty sure Stentor is convinced that Nikolaos can do no wrong.

This was the one thing Alexios wouldn’t be able to take from him.

He took some comfort in that, though it wasn’t much next to the shame he felt at enjoying this, and worse than that, that nagging knowledge that the only reason this was happening was because his pater didn’t _truly_ consider him his son. Because if he were Alexios, born from his loins, raised as his child since birth, he wouldn’t be bent over the large dinner table now, in a house he hadn’t actually grown up in and that would never belong to him now, his face buried in the crook of his elbow and his treacherous body shaking under Nikolaos’ hands. The only reason he had this, this one thing that was his alone, was because he’d been something else to Nikolaos long before he’d been his son.

His pater’s beard was rough against the back of his neck, more coarse than he remembered it being when they’d both been younger. Not quite young enough that this would have been all right, but young enough that it still would have qualified as dragging things out a bit too long. Rather than … whatever this was. A shameful return to something he should have grown out of. A pathetic weakness that he’d dragged a greater man into. Something he’d tried so hard to move past, to grow beyond, and now he could weep like a child with relief over feeling Nikolaos’ hands again, stroking his bare sides.

“Hush,” Nikolaos mumbled against his neck, just like he had when Stentor had been just a boy – proud and hopeful and beside himself with excitement that he’d caught the eye of the Wolf of Sparta, and more than a little nervous the first time Nikolaos had taken him to his bed. He’d heard all kinds of stories from other boys, good as well as bad, but somehow none of them had prepared him for just how good it felt to lose himself so entirely underneath the man he admired most in the world. The man who could surely not respect him anymore, not when Stentor had rolled over like some Athenian whore now even though he was not even close to a boy anymore. But by the gods, he’d missed this. Had missed the rough tenderness of Nikolaos’ hands, more gentle here than they were in anything else; he’d missed his smell and how hoarse his voice got in these private moments, the sensation of those strong hands stroking down his sides, rubbing over the small of his back as if they knew exactly how tense Stentor was. It had been easier to relax when he’d been a boy, when his greatest crime had been enjoying something perfectly respectable a little too much.

“Hush, son,” and Stentor bit his arm to keep himself quiet. He hated having to share that word. He hated even more that he didn’t feel worthy of it anymore.

* * *

In his defence, he’d tried to stay away, ever since their return to Sparta herself. Boeotia had been everything he’d dreamt of, once his pater had returned. They’d worked together, and even as Nikolaos had still taught him new things, he’d clearly respected Stentor’s own skill and experience. He even commended his tactics, praised his plans. It had been just like in Megaris before Alexios had shown up to ruin everything. Stentor had wanted to ask – how his pater could have abandoned Sparta and his duties, if he’d been on some secret assignment – but he’d been too relieved to have him back. It had been so easy to forget about Alexios once he was out of sight.

But then the war came to an end and they went home, and with Nikolaos came his old family. A wife who’d once abandoned him. A daughter who should have been put down like the mad dog she was. And a son who was both less than Nikolaos deserved and more than Stentor could hope to be. An unbeatable force of nature in battle, so charming that even Stentor’s own wife liked him, so influential he’d been granted his citizenship despite not having been raised in the agoge and not belonging to any syssitia, a man who spent every other day at General Brasidas’ side because they were all but inseparable. He wasn’t a proper Spartan, and yet Nikolaos’ eyes lit up with affection and pride every time he looked at him.

So Stentor had kept his distance. He’d always known that he was a replacement. That Nikolaos had lost his family, that he’d refused to remarry, that with his own children gone, he’d grown far more attached to his eromenos than most men did. It had been a point of pride for Stentor once, that he’d _earned_ the right to call Nikolaos pater, that he would be a better son than the one who shared Nikolaos’ blood. But now his pater’s first son was back, hailed as a hero rather than a traitor, allowed to call himself Spartan when he was still barely more than a misthios who killed for money. But Nikolaos cared for him and seemed determined to make amends for what had never been his fault to begin with, and it wasn’t Stentor’s place to be in the way of that. Unlike Alexios, he knew not to question his pater’s wishes.

He’d managed fine for a few short weeks after his return to Sparta. He butted heads with Alexios once or twice, exchanged the occasional brief conversation with Nikolaos, and otherwise focused on his duties. He’d been training one afternoon when his pater had joined him and his men, barely saying a word and merely waving Stentor’s sparring partner aside before he caught the next thrust of Stentor’s spear with his shield. 

They sparred until they were both drenched in sweat and out of breath, and Stentor did his best not to notice that Nikolaos wasn’t as fast as he’d used to be. Back when Stentor had been a boy, he’d watched Nikolaos throw almost every man who challenged him into the dust of the training grounds. They’d all wanted to be like him, and the first time Nikolaos had noticed him, and corrected his stance, and then put a hand on his shoulder and said “good” when Stentor obeyed, that had been the happiest moment of his short life. These days Nikolaos was still a force to be reckoned with, his arm strong and steady, decades of experience still easily making up for the lack of youthful speed, but no training in the world could save a man from age. Stentor hoped that peace wouldn’t last so long it’d deprive Nikolaos of the chance for a glorious death.

They both poured the water a slave had brought them over their heads to cool down, but even that didn’t help with the heat spreading through Stentor when his pater reached out, his hand almost settling on his shoulder before it went for the back of his neck instead and squeezed. And then it lingered there, a paternal touch carrying with it far more intent than it should, or rather that was Stentor’s own mind feverishly thinking of other things. Of all the nights they had spent together when he’d been a boy – when Nikolaos had almost never smiled except when he’d looked at him, when he’d taken him hunting and riding and sparring and fishing, when he’d kissed him and pulled him into his lap and insisted on making Stentor relax before he’d taken him. Looking back, it might have been better if Nikolaos had been less careful about it. Then maybe Stentor would have been able to bear it as an unpleasant duty instead of yearning for it.

“I missed you at dinner last night,” Nikolaos finally said, almost the first words he’d spoken to him that day. His thumb was stroking the side of Stentor’s neck; his voice was even, but there was a hint of that sharp authority Stentor had never even dreamt of disobeying. 

“My presence was required at my syssitia,” Stentor said, as if that had been the reason. It was a transparent excuse, one he should have been ashamed of voicing.

“I’m sure a dispensation could have been arranged. You wouldn’t be the only man asking to spend an evening with his family after returning from the war.”

Stentor swallowed hard, and before he could catch himself, he said, “They are not my family.”

Nikolaos was quiet then, looking at him while his hand stilled on Stentor’s neck. Still touching him, as if his gaze wasn’t enough to freeze Stentor in place.

“Maybe not,” he replied eventually, “but I am. I expect you to be there next time.”

It was both a rebuke and an order, and Stentor obediently bowed his head even as his stomach sunk. 

“Yes, pater.”

Nikolaos moved closer then, far too close, and Stentor almost wondered if he’d forgotten where they were until Nikolaos simply leant his forehead against his, a warm, lingering touch while his thumb kept stroking the side of his neck. His touch burnt on Stentor’s skin like it always had, like it hadn’t been years since they’d indulged in old pleasures. Surely Nikolaos had no desire for such things anymore, now that Stentor was a man. Surely it was only his own greedy imagination that misread his touch, or at least so he assumed in that moment.

But as always he obeyed, and the next time Nikolaos called for a “family dinner”, Stentor obtained a dispensation and listened to Myrrine talk endlessly about “our family” as if she didn’t even notice he was there and to Alexios tell tales of his mercenary adventures as if he felt no shame for selling his sword arm, and in the end he wrestled with Kassandra in the backyard because at least nobody expected him to pretend he didn’t despise her. His pater had looked like he’d wanted to say something when Stentor had made his excuses to leave, and then thought better of it. Maybe he understood why Stentor didn’t want to be here – in a house they all called home, a house they all had such fond memories of. Stentor had visited it as a boy, had even slept in Nikolaos’ bed countless times, but it had never been his home. That had been the agoge, and the barracks, and later when he got married his own little house. He’d never bothered to find a bigger, nicer one, because he’d always known that one day – hopefully in the far-away future – Nikolaos’ house would be his. It had never been his home, and now it was never going to be.

It was the very same house they were in now, but maybe that was only fitting. There was no other place they’d slept together more often, though it usually hadn’t been on the dinner table back then. Myrrine had taken Kassandra north with her on some errand and Alexios was accompanying Brasidas on patrols to keep the roads safe from bandits and straggling soldiers, and maybe that had been what Nikolaos had been waiting for this whole time, as if he couldn’t have had Stentor any time he’d asked.

Maybe this was the one thing his pater still needed him for, now that he had his real family back.

“Do you want me to stop?” Nikolaos asked suddenly, and Stentor flinched in surprise. He felt a different kind of guilt well up on him, that his distraction must have been that obvious. His pater had asked him that once before, shortly after he’d officially adopted Stentor and neither of them had been quite sure if Stentor being his son made him any less his eromenos. He’d still been young enough then, a boy of fifteen, and the thought of losing that overwhelming feeling of Nikolaos’ whole attention fixated on him had been unbearable.

“No, pater.” The same reply he’d given back then, too, savouring the last word on his tongue while shame and lust shuddered through him. And back then already that scorching, aching thought, that if he’d truly been Nikolaos’ son, none of this would have been happening. Maybe he would have been lucky and wouldn’t even have wanted it to.

“What then?” Nikolaos’ thumbs were rubbing over the small of his back, warm and oddly soothing, even with his cock hard against the back of Stentor’s thigh. It had already made him dizzy back then that Nikolaos wanted him – it had never felt like convenience, or duty – and that vain feeling had only got worse the older he became, the less acceptable it was for them to be this to each other. Something like lovers almost, until the first time Stentor had been sent away from Sparta for months, and when he’d returned, Nikolaos hadn’t touched him again. Years had passed since then, and until now Stentor hadn’t known that decision couldn’t have been easy for him either.

“You could have done this earlier,” Stentor said quietly. His voice was muffled against his forearm; he felt open and vulnerable, standing like that with his legs spread and Nikolaos’ warmth against him.

“I wasn’t going to use you so.” Like a boy, or worse, a woman. It didn’t bear thinking about what it said about Stentor that he desperately wanted him to.

And of course Nikolaos hadn’t done this when Stentor was all he had to carry on his legacy, when it was still unclear whether Alexios would ever return home. A man didn’t dishonour his heir. But a second son, a replacement that had become superfluous … There was no need for Nikolaos to deny himself anymore, and a worthless part of Stentor was endlessly grateful for it.

“You can,” Stentor said quietly, uselessly, as if his pater needed permission. As if Stentor had ever stopped being his, in every possible way. He’d never exaggerated when he said that he would do anything for him, and this … it should have felt a sacrifice of his dignity, his pride, but the shame didn’t keep the moans from his lips when Nikolaos’ oiled fingers slid lower. Rubbing between his cheeks, touching him where nobody else had touched in close to a decade, or even before that. There was no other man Stentor would submit to like this. No other man he would have wanted. When those thick, calloused fingers breached him, it hurt more than he remembered, though he couldn’t have said if it was because he wasn’t used to it anymore or because he’d excised the pain from his memories and only clung to the pleasure.

He still pushed back against the intrusion, remembering just how good it felt once Nikolaos touched him deep enough inside, making him shudder and groan and even beg at times. He thought back to all the times he’d been squirming in Nikolaos’ lap, strong hands on his hips holding him steady to keep him from grinding down too fast and hurting himself, and the few times Stentor had managed to do it anyway, it had been more than worth it for the hungry sounds it had drawn from Nikolaos’ lips.

He tried to be more patient now, to savour it, in case this was some kind of whim, something his pater needed to do once to … to make a point maybe, or to refresh a fond old memory. If he could make this last a little tonight, all the better – the steady push of his fingers, Nikolaos’ other hand stroking down his spine, brushing over ancient scars and ones that he’d never touched before. They didn’t talk – they rarely ever had during this, except for brief instructions or quiet, monosyllabic praise that always made Stentor tighten around him. But they’d never needed to talk about this, not when they understood each other so well, not when everything Stentor liked about it were things his pater had taught him to like – most of them before Stentor had called him that, but in hindsight that made so little difference.

The shame and the anger and the doubts were nothing but faint background noise by the time his pater pushed into him, slow but steady now, until Stentor had to stifle a whimper because of how full it made him feel. His cock twitched against the table, and his muscles were trembling when Nikolaos grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up against his chest. It wasn’t comfortable, far from it, but still worth it to feel the lengths of their bodies pressed together, and the scratch of Nikolaos’ beard against his neck, the quiet rasp of his deep voice against his ear. His hand moved from Stentor’s shoulder to his throat, holding him in place while he rocked into him. It was slow, unhurried, every thrust sending another shiver down Stentor’s spine. 

He’d never been good at staying quiet during this, though he tried his best to listen to his pater’s quiet gasps rather than his own choked moans. He felt so good it made him a little dizzy, made his body feel weak and boneless, as if he would have crumbled to the floor if not for Nikolaos’ hands holding him in place. It would have been easier if they’d been face to face, if he could have put his arms and his legs around him to hold on, but at least this way he wouldn’t have to worry about what Nikolaos might see on his face, the desperate need and the pathetic gratitude.

He bit his tongue to stop himself from begging when Nikolaos’ other hand closed around his cock,. He’d never been one for teasing, and Stentor had never appreciated it more than right now as his pater’s hand moved without faltering, stroking him in time with his deep, slow thrusts, his rough voice mumbling the occasional word of encouragement into his son’s ear. Stentor spilt all over the wooden table, and even in that moment, through the blissful haze in his mind, he felt a petty kind of satisfaction at that – that they’d done this on the table Nikolaos’ family ate at, that none of them knew just what it was Stentor shared with him. Not the faithless wife who’d abandoned him instead of giving him more sons when the first one had disappointed him so. Not his barbaric children who weren’t worthy to be called Spartan. Nikolaos deserved better than any of them.

Stentor closed his eyes, tried to put the lot of them from his mind and simply focus on the still so familiar moans against his neck when his pater came inside him, on the way he wrapped both arms around Stentor now and held him close against his chest. Nikolaos kissed the side of his neck, even smiled against it when Stentor’s head lolled back against his shoulder to bare his throat. They’d done this so many times that every touch still felt familiar, felt like coming home in a way this house never would. For a shameful moment Stentor wished they could simply stay here like this, holding on to each other, with nobody else around to bother them, no duties to attend, no battles to fight. Of course that wasn’t who either of them was. They wouldn’t respect each other if they were. 

They were both so sweaty their skin stuck to each other when they finally moved again, Stentor leaning heavily against the table and Nikolaos making a shaky step backwards. The earth seemed to shake a little under Stentor’s feet, the air in the room felt too hot to breathe. It took him a few seconds to gather his wits enough to start looking for his discarded clothes. The silence was suddenly more oppressive than comfortable, the reality of what they’d done ringing in his ears.

“I’m sorry, pater.” Stentor turned aside as he slipped his tunic back over his head, to feel at least a little bit less exposed. When he glanced up, his pater looked just like he always had after they’d done this – flushed with exertion, satisfaction draining some of the tension out of his strong body, his eyes almost gentle. Stentor loved him so dearly, he almost couldn’t bear that look in his eyes.

“Don’t be.” Nikolaos reached out for him again, his hand cupping Stentor’s chin. Stentor could smell his own release on it, tried not to think of all the times he’d licked it from Nikolaos’ fingers, eager to clean him up after they’d stolen brief moments together during training breaks. “I have made too many mistakes myself to expect my sons to be perfect anymore.”

Even now Stentor couldn’t suppress his sneer. It rankled him too much to be put into any category with Alexios, let alone one that meant so much to him as being Nikolaos’ son.

“At least I try,” he said. Alexios seemed to flaunt how different he was, cocky and obnoxious, full of himself and unable to follow simple orders. He had all the arrogance of a man who hadn’t been beaten often enough as a boy. Stentor didn’t understand what everyone saw in him, from the king to Nikolaos to the soldiers under his command, why even an honourable man like Brasidas thought so highly of him.

“Alexios hasn’t had it easy. Considering his upbringing away from Sparta, he certainly isn’t doing badly,” Nikolaos said. Stentor’s fingers twitched into a fist, but he choked down everything he had to say about Alexios’ _upbringing_. Unlike some people, he was a proper Spartan. He wasn’t going to disrespect a father by insulting his son.

“Do we have to talk about him? Now?”

“He is your brother.” Nikolaos’ tone was still patient – he’d mellowed somewhat in the years he’d been gone. Oh, he was still ruthless in the face of his enemies, and implacable to those under his command, but he seemed to spend more time thinking and even talking about things that used to go unacknowledged.

“No. He’s your son, that is not the same thing.” Stentor leant his cheek into his pater’s hand, hating how starved he still felt for his touch, even while his body was sore from what they’d just done. He sighed. “You know I would follow you through the gates of Hades, pater, but do not ask me to call him brother.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Nikolaos’ mouth, and he pulled Stentor closer still until their foreheads almost touched again.

“I won’t insist on that,” he said, but his voice was serious, his tone precluding any disagreement when he continued, “But neither will I have you avoid me just because you’re trying to avoid him. You too are my son, and I won’t have you forget that.”

Stentor’s heart pounded in his chest like he’d run up Mount Taygetos in full armour, and his ribcage felt almost too tight to contain it.

“Never, pater.” If he were unlucky enough to die of old age, his mind so far gone he wouldn’t even remember his own name, that was the one thing he could never forget. That Nikolaos had chosen him, that Nikolaos called him _son_ because he thought Stentor was worthy of it, despite this one weakness of his he couldn’t rid himself of.

“Good.” Nikolaos raised his other hand, framing Stentor’s face in his hands before he pressed a dry kiss to his lips – the kind a man might share with a friend or a brother, at least until it lingered for far too long. And Stentor had been given permission to enjoy it, hadn’t he?

When their lips parted, Nikolaos made sure to catch his eye again before he continued, “Alexios may be my first son, my heir, and he’s more than earned the right to come home to Sparta … but he is not Spartan like you and I are, he never will be. There are things about us, about our home, that he will never understand.”

“But you still love him, for all his failings.”

“Of course I do. I love Kassandra, too, and she makes it much harder than him.” Stentor scoffed at the understatement, but he felt a knot starting to untie deep inside him at the intense look in his pater’s eyes when he went on, “I couldn’t be happier to have them back. But the heir to my legacy, to everything I have devoted my life to? The one who serves Sparta as faithfully as I have? That will always be you, Stentor, no matter what Alexios does. You must know that.”

Stentor blinked too quickly, breathed in deeply as if that could stop his pulse from racing. Nikolaos’ hands were so warm on his face, and his eyes weren’t looking at anything but him. 

“Despite –?” His voice sounded choked, as if asking that at all was too much already.

“Yes,” Nikolaos said, not forcing Stentor to put what had just happened in words. It was a small mercy, that his pater didn’t wish to talk about this any more than Stentor did. 

After a moment’s silence, Stentor asked, “Will it happen again?”

A lesser man might have asked him if he wanted it to, or told him that it shouldn’t – as if Nikolaos didn’t know what Stentor wanted, and as if Stentor didn’t know that it shouldn’t happen again. His pater had always respected him too much to talk to him like to a child, even back when they’d first met. He’d treated him like a man from the start, convinced that anything else would only have made him soft. And whatever other failings Stentor had now, he certainly wasn’t _soft_. 

“Yes,” Nikolaos simply said again, and nothing had ever come more naturally to Stentor than bending to his will. He bowed his head, as far as he could with his pater’s hands still holding his face. He yearned for another kiss, after so many years of missing his touch, but he could tell this wasn’t the moment for it. He still drunk up his closeness, savouring the thrill that he would continue to have this – not just a kind of love that Alexios would never know, but also his pater’s respect despite it. 

Stentor still wasn’t entirely convinced that he deserved it – though certainly more so than the children his pater wasted his love on – but he would do what he had always done: he would spend every minute of every day striving to prove worthy of the trust his pater had placed in him. And if, _when_ Alexios disappointed their father again, Stentor would still be here, and he would always be everything Nikolaos needed in a son.


End file.
